


Upside Down

by LondonLioness



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft Holmes IS the British Government, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 04:24:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18336119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LondonLioness/pseuds/LondonLioness
Summary: Mycroft fiddled with his laptop. "I am about to show you a video of Sherlock the day he jumped.""Now? Why not two years ago?" In a low, dangerous monotone, John asked, "Is the answer to why on there?""It is." Mycroft held up a hand to forestall John's anger. "I could not share this with you before now, for reasons that will become clear as you watch."John nodded once, tight-lipped, and settled himself, hands on thighs and elbows out. His entire stance screamed,Those reasons had better be good!On the screen, Sherlock was staring straight ahead. His stare had a brittle, broken-glass quality. Then Mycroft entered the room, and Sherlock's gaze shifted to him. There was such raw pain in that look, John felt his heart twist in anguish.Makes no sense. Mycroft is the most observant person in the world; he had to have seen his brother was in anguish. Why didn't he act? How did you drop the ball on this of all days, Mycroft?Then Sherlock opened his mouth, and the words that came out flipped John Watson's world upside down.





	Upside Down

**Author's Note:**

> There seems to be an unwritten law in this fandom that everyone does a post-Reichenbach, how we wish John had found out, fic. This one's mine.

One of the things that surprised John Watson about his life after Sherlock -- fell (he could never bring himself to say "jumped") was that Mycroft Holmes continued to be in touch. Oh, he didn't become chummy by any means, but he definitely maintained a presence. They would meet each other visiting Sherlock's grave a bit too often for coincidence, and every so often, things Dr. Watson needed just sort of worked out. The third time this happened, he confronted the surviving brother: 

"I don't need a sodding guardian angel, Mycroft!" 

Mycroft looked down, and when he looked back up, John could see pain in his eyes. "It's my gift to my brother, John." 

The doctor felt the air leave his lungs with a whoosh, and when he could speak again, he murmured, "I understand. But you cant keep operating behind the scenes on my behalf like a puppeteer. How about this: I promise that if I need help, I'll let you know?" 

"As you wish." 

That had been two month ago, and Mycroft had gone from being too present to being completely absent. After a few weeks, John called, just to touch base with the man, and was informed by Anthea that Mr. Holmes had "business abroad" and his absence might well be prolonged. 

John was therefore surprised to receive a text: _Must see you on a matter of some importance. -- MH_

Huh. That was interesting. The second anniversary of Sherlock's death was approaching; perhaps Mycroft wished to organise a memorial of some kind? It seemed much too sentimental a thing for the Ice Man to do, but John could think of nothing else the elder Holmes might wish to talk about. He texted back: 

_\--On my way to work. Off at 6. -- JW_

_\--You've been granted an extended vacation. Kindly step into the car. -- MH_

From long experience, John didn't even bother to look around. He simply stepped to the kerb and waited the three seconds necessary for the black SUV to ease alongside and the door to open. 

He was whisked (as well as one could be "whisked" in city traffic) to a completely nondescript office complex where he was escorted through multiple layers of security to a completely nondescript office door. Inside, however, it was incredibly posh, from the polished walnut paneling to the ultra-plush carpet. Nail-trimmed leather chairs with claw feet graced the room and behind a huge mahogany desk, obviously in his element, sat Mycroft Holmes. He rose to greet the doctor, and nodded confirmation of John's suspicions. 

"Yes, Dr. Watson, this is the real office." He indicated a chair facing the desk and fiddled with his laptop. "I record everything that happens within these walls. I'm about to show you a video of Sherlock taken the day he jumped." 

John blinked back his shock. "And you want to show this to me now? Why not two years ago? This makes no sense; what's the point?" He drew a deep breath through his nose, swallowing down a surge of rage that made him want to punch that posh bastard right in the nose. In a low, dangerous monotone, he asked, "Is the answer to why on there?" 

"It is." Mycroft held up a hand to forestall John's anger. "I must beg you for patience. I could not share this with you until now, for reasons that will become clear as you watch." 

John nodded once, tight-lipped, and settled himself, hands on thighs and elbows out. His entire stance screamed, _Those reasons had better be good!_

The video started, and John struggled to swallow past the sudden lump in his throat. _Sherlock!_ His lost friend was sitting in the chair John currently occupied, turned to face the door. His hands were pressed together in his thinking position, but John didn't think he was in his mind palace. In those instances, you could virtually see the wheels turning; here, the detective was simply staring straight ahead. His stare had a brittle, broken-glass quality about it, and every so often a light tremor would gust through the tall man's frame. Sherlock looked devastated, as if he were on the verge of going into physical shock. 

After a moment, Mycroft came in, carrying a thin stack of manila folders and a small metal case. John waited for the snarking to begin. The two brothers could not share a room without some verbal swordplay. Instead, no words were spoken. Mycroft stood by the door, waiting for his brother's acknowledgement with an attitude of -- sympathy? Respect? After a long moment, Sherlock's gaze shifted to take in his brother, and there was such raw pain in that look, John felt his heart twist in grief. 

_It doesn't make sense. Mycroft is the most observant person I know, possibly the most observant person in the world. He had to have seen his brother was in anguish. Why wouldn't he act to protect him from himself? It's what he did, with the constant surveillance and bribing or threatening his associates as he deemed necessary ... How did you drop the ball on this of all days, Mycroft?_

Then Sherlock opened his mouth and the words that came out flipped John Watson's world upside down. 

"He screamed my name. Did you hear it, Mycroft?" 

"All of London heard it." 

"Oh, God." Sherlock wrapped his arms around his middle and bent over, seeming to literally hold himself together. "Oh, god, Mykie..." 

The use of the childish nickname seemed to stir something in the elder Holmes. He set his items down and knelt before his younger sibling, trying to establish eye contact. "Sherlock." 

Suddenly, Sherlock's hands snaked out and captured Mycroft's wrists. The detective looked up, and John saw that he was laughing, an utterly mirthless, dry whisker of a laugh that made the hair on the back of the doctor's neck stand up. Sherlock drew his brother close and in that same voiceless whisper pronounced, "He's won." 

Mycroft frowned. "What's this, then?" 

"Moriarty, from beyond the grave, claims victory." 

Confusion clouded the older man's face. "You're alive; he's dead. I'd say game point goes to you." 

"But that's not the game. The game was never Last man Standing. He swore to burn the heart out of me, remember? And he's done it. Forcing me to hurt John like this..." He released his brother, sat back, and scrubbed his hands over his face. When he looked up, he seemed a bit calmer. "This is much harder than I thought it would be." 

Mycroft studied his sibling for a long moment, then spoke. "I say this against my better judgment: Moriarty's assassins needed to see you jump, and they saw an authentic reaction in Dr. Watson's response. With those conditions fulfilled, it may be possible to bring him into the loop..." 

"No, Mycroft, don't tempt me." Sherlock looked absolutely miserable. "He'd try to come with. Failing that, he'd try to follow. Put himself in harm's way and possibly trigger the contracts against Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. That would rather defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?" 

"He will not thank you for this deception," the elder brother warned. 

Sherlock winced at that, but his voice was resolute. "Let him hate me forever, as long as he's alive." He speared Mycroft with an intense gaze. "Your job, brother. Do what you do best. Watch over him; keep him safe. If he suffers so much as a hangnail, I'm holding you responsible." 

"I shall vet his manicurist personally." The dry humour broke the tension. Mycroft collected his things and moved to sit behind the desk. "To work?" 

Sherlock turned his chair to face him. "To work," he agreed mildly. 

Mycroft gathered up the manila folder. "We have so far identified three nodes of Moriarty's web in Dublin, Hamburg, and Rome." He set each folder on the desk as he named it. "Photo ID's have to wait until our cosmetician has had a go at you, but the materials in the folder will be enough to get you started. Beginning with Dublin..." He flipped open the folder to reveal a stack of photographs, reports, and documents. "Your cover, your contact, and all the information we have on the cell. How's your Irish accent?" 

"I consider it perfectly serviceable, Mr. Holmes," Sherlock replied in what sounded to John like a flawless brogue, but Mycroft frowned. 

"You're hesitating a bit on those R's. You have a week to practise. You'll also want to get in some practise time with this." He snapped open the case to reveal a sleek black gun and accessories. "This is a Walther PPK, .38 calibre. Laser sight, silencer, and a couple of extra features our technicians will go over with you." 

Sherlock hefted the gun experimentally. "Nice balance," he murmured. He extended his arm, then practised a two-handed grip. "Oh, the irony," he chuckled. "John adores James Bond movies; I think they're ridiculous. Who knew I'd be running off to star in one?" 

"I could wish it were a movie," Mycroft remarked. 

"Hmm." Sherlock sobered and replaced the gun in its case. "Only three cells?" 

"Three confirmed," his brother clarified. "There are several other locations our agents are working to verify. And, of course, part of your job in each case is to pick up the thread that leads to other nodes. Understand, Sherlock, I'm going to provide you with as much support as I can, but for much of this, you will be on your own." He raised a finger in warning. "Don't get reckless." 

Sherlock chose his words carefully. "Mycroft, you've said that caring is not an advantage, and in the cold logic of the zero-sum game, you are correct. But here's the fallacy: once you add in caring, the game is no longer zero-sum. It becomes synergistic. I don't know how, but John Watson taught me to care. And because I care, I'm going to accomplish this mission and come home. I have too much to lose to allow for any other outcome." 

Mycroft nodded contemplatively. "Just don't let your feelings get in the way." His mobile chirruped, and he read the message. "They're ready for you downstairs." 

"Good." The two brothers sauntered to the door. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair as he walked. "I'm thinking blond buzz cut." 

"Ugh." 

The video ended, and John sat back, head spinning. "Contracts," he croaked. "As in, contract killings. Moriarty had hit men trained on me, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson?" 

"Indeed. They had orders to shoot if Sherlock did not take the fall." 

"So Sherlock faked his death and set out to take down Moriarty's web. But -- two years, Mycroft? You honestly couldn't give me a word for two years?" 

"They would believe as long as you believed. It is not that I lacked confidence in you, but I was unwilling to risk my brother. You must forgive me for that." 

John nodded, hope building in his eye. "So you're showing me this because -- mission accomplished? He's home?" 

"Mission accomplished, yes. But he's not quite home yet." Mycroft regarded the other man solemnly. "He's in hospital in Geneva. I assure you, he's expected to make a full recovery." 

"What happened?" 

"He was captured in Serbia. It took us weeks to track him down and extract him." The elder brother sighed deeply. "They weren't gentle with him, John. He was tortured. Starved. Abused in ways I don't care to mention. If you wish, I'll authorise you to see his medical file." 

"Damn straight I wish! How bad is he?" 

"I'll let you ask him yourself." Mycroft handed the doctor his mobile. "Speed dial two." 

Dazed, John took the device and hit the appropriate contact. His call must have been expected, because the answer was immediate. A familiar baritone, weak but unmistakable, floated through the speaker: 

"Dr. Watson, I presume." 

"Omigod." John struggled to draw breath into lungs that were suddenly too small. "It's you, it's really you, that's your voice." 

"John. I'm so sorry for the pain this whole thing put you through..." 

"Never mind my pain," John replied. "Tell me how you're doing. Mycroft tells me you hit a rough patch in Serbia." 

"A rough patch. That's one way of putting it." Sherlock chuckled drily. "It was touch and go for a while, but I'm definitely on the mend now. I have one more minor surgery scheduled for tomorrow, and after that, if everything goes as planned, I should be breathing that sweet London smog in about three weeks." 

"Right. I'll be there as soon as I can." 

"John. I...I can't really expect you to drop your whole life and come rushing to my bedside." 

"You don't get a vote, Holmes!" John exclaimed with sudden anger. "After making me grieve for two years ... I _need_ to rush to your bedside." He drew a deep breath. "I'm on the next plane to Geneva. Your brother is making the arrangements as we speak." Mycroft raised an eyebrow but nodded. 

"I'm glad," Sherlock answered. "I can't wait to see you." 

"Same here." He signed off. 

"There are no arrangements to make," the British Government announced. "You'll ride with me on the private jet. Pack a bag. I'll send a car for you in about three hours." 

In short order, John found himself sipping white wine and nibbling a cheese tray as their jet approached the Alps. Conversation was perfunctory. At one point, John asked, "What happened to them?" 

"Who?" 

"The Serbians who tortured Sherlock." 

Mycroft's smile was a shark's. "Need to know, Dr. Watson. You do not need to know." 

"Ah." John popped the last cheese and cracker in his mouth and sat back. "Good." 

Less than two hours later, John was escorted to a private room in an exclusive wing of the most upscale hospital he'd ever seen. The door was open and he could see Sherlock, looking impossibly thin and pale. Despite himself, John ran the last couple of metres to the bedside. The two friends clasped hands, searched each other's faces, and breathed out as one: 

"You're real." 

\- Fin -

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I never bought the idea that he underwent weeks of torture, then danced over to a restaurant. Also, it's my personal head canon that Speed Dial 1 on Mycroft's phone is reserved for Her Majesty.
> 
> It's pretty obvious that John's problem is not so much that Sherlock kept his being alive secret, but that he treated it so lightly. This way, the emotional cost is obvious, the stakes are clear, and Mycroft takes the blame for the radio silence. It may not be as entertaining as the show, but I think it makes a lot more sense.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Leave kudos and comments; I like those more than chocolate!


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